


Flower Boy, Magic Boy

by MilkTeaMiku



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Domestic Fluff, Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 07:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13359696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkTeaMiku/pseuds/MilkTeaMiku
Summary: A flower born from magic seemed like a very heartfelt, very profound gift. Lance started to like Keith a little more after thinking that. Anyone who saw the great value in his flowers made him happier to work for them.-Lance's family runs a business creating magical flowers. When an order from a fiery customer comes in, it's entrusted to Lance to fulfil.





	Flower Boy, Magic Boy

Lance’s family had been flower makers for as long as he could remember. For as long as his father could remember too, and his grandfather, and probably his great-grandfather. They’d always been flower makers, and he was no exception. Although it had been made very clear to him that he was free to choose the life he wanted, he’d chosen the flowers. They’d always called to him. It had always been where he’d felt most useful.

The flowers they made weren’t ordinary ones, and certainly not the kind one would expect to find in a home-grown garden or a sunny meadow. His family’s flowers were imbued with magic, were grown from pure energy. It wasn’t an uncommon thing to see a family run a magic-based business. Down the street from their shop was a tattoo parlour, where the tattoos could come to life and move as if they were real. There was an artist who liked to order their flowers a lot who was frequently commissioned to paint runes – protection runes, luck runes, anything within his artistic capability. Some of his paintings sold for five or more figures just because of the expert magic he’d imbued in them.

In fact, many of Lance’s family’s flowers sold for quite a decent price, too. After all, his family were some of the most trusted flower makers in the country. Their products were rarely rivalled in colour or quality, and there was something oddly charming about anything made by their hands, something lively and unusual. It was a great source of pride to Lance, to have his family known as one of the best flower makers in the entire country, to be a part of that. He loved everything about the flowers they made, even when they were not born from his own hands.

It took him years to master the art his father so easily harnessed. He could remember early mornings and late evenings sat on his father’s lap in his father’s prized workshop, bathed in vibrant light falling through stained glass windows his mother had crafted. She wasn’t much of a flower maker, but she could certainly decorate a home prettier than what was seen in high-end magazines. An entirely normal talent, as far as talents went, but one everyone was proud of her for. Every small achievement was celebrated in his family. She had the best eye for design, and more than happy to share her knowledge. She’d built the workshop as an anniversary gift to her husband.

Lance liked to think he’d gotten better at flower making in the last few years. He’d always been a restless child, always full of pent up energy with little skill in directing it. Flower making was a delicate task that required intense concentration and the steadiest of hands. His father worked hard to teach Lance everything he knew, and now those lessons were paying off.

No one could craft flowers like Lance could. He turned out to have quite a good eye for detail – his aunts and uncles liked to teasingly call him a sharpshooter, simply because he could direct his energy into a point finer than the head of a needle. 

His favourite part of flower making was always crafting the petals. First, one had to craft the stem, which was perhaps the bulkiest task. The stem would function as the main collection point of energy, aside from the pistil, or the centre of the flower. The flower’s lifespan depended on a healthy, stable stem; it was the dam that gave water to a city. After that came any decorative leaves, because they were simple, or thorns, for the more adventurous types. Depending on the flower, Lance would craft sepals, or filaments and anthers. Little decorative pieces that made the flowers seem more lifelike, more like what grew from soil and water and sunlight.

Lastly came the petals. Most would craft them right after the stem, because that seemed logical. If one imaged it like a drawing, then the stem was the paper, and the petals were the initial sketch. The rest was a build-up of details, and was usually dependant on the petals for size, colour, style, things like that. Once the petals were decided, it was easier to tell if the flower would require receptacles, if it needed bigger or smaller sepals, if anthers were necessary, that sort of thing. The petals were supposed to be the basis from which a maker would work off of.

But Lance never liked doing things in order. He was like his mother like that, determined to make things harder for himself, and too stubborn to stop once he’d begun. He worked out his own way of doing things, building backwards instead of forwards. The stem always came first, of course, but he’d do the rest next, and then fit the petals to the flower-base. It felt more personal like that, like the petals were made especially for that flower. It was more… magical.

Most often, people only ordered a single flower. They could be pricey, and took a long time to make. Flowers, even magical ones, had to wilt eventually, so it wasn’t like they could be saved or put aside while an entire bouquet was crafted. That wasn’t how it worked. Besides, there was enough magic in just one single flower to dazzle even the most cold-hearted of people.

One day, Lance was passed an order from his father that his father was struggling to fulfil. That in itself was strange, as he was far more experienced than Lance, and knew the ways of flower-making more intimately.

“There’s something about this customer I can’t overcome,” he’d said, as he’d passed Lance the commission request. “He’s too fiery, too intense. Any time I try to sculpt for him, the petals become singed. Maybe your energy can quell him.”

It was a bit of a well-known fact in the family that Lance’s energy was rather soothing. He was energetic and social and sometimes too flirty, but even so, his magic was like water. As rough and eager as it could be, it was an inherently unruffled entity, like a cooling balm. Sometimes they got orders from customers who were too passionate that the more gentle flower-makers in the family ended up with burnt flakes instead of delicate petals, and the orders were always passed over to Lance. The vitality in his magic kept the flowers hydrated, even while the passion and fire was channelled into the flower itself.

The order sheet was pretty standard. The customer, a boy only a year or two older than Lance, wanted a flower for his brother’s wedding. Standard information was provided, all the things a flower maker would need to know to make the flower: personality types, what the flower was intended for, the connection between the person and the flower, or the person and the receiver who they wished to gift the flower to. All details surrounding the flower’s creation were important when making it. Symbolism was a big deal when it came to flowers.

As far as flowers went, this one certainly seemed like it was going to be packed full of fire. The customer’s name was Keith, and his brother was Shiro, a veteran with a prosthetic arm and a forgiving heart. He was marrying a woman named Allura whose political prowess was unrivalled, and the gentleness in her soul unmistakeable. From Keith’s description of them, Lance could tell these people were very important to him. Their happiness was pivotal. They balanced each other out, chased away each other’s nightmares, made the world a less frightening place.

A flower born from magic seemed like a very heartfelt, very profound gift.

Lance started to like Keith a little more after thinking that. Anyone who saw the great value in his flowers made him happier to work for them.

Still, as his father had said, the flower would be a stubborn one to create. Working with magic made Lance and his family more sensitive to its presence, and Keith’s order form – filled out entirely by hand, as was required – felt like it was saturated in embers. He was a fierce person, perhaps a little isolated, conflicted by his desire for… what? Maybe quiet and attention. That seemed like it fit him, from what Lance could sense off of the residual magic. Keith wanted isolation, but craved social interaction. Even people who liked to be alone did not want to be lonely.

He set to making the flower that evening, right when the sun was at its warmest. 

It was going to be a long week.

 

Predictably, the flower was difficult to make. Lance tested petal designs on a spare stem designed specifically for practice, but his first few creations were consumed by embers so bright he almost felt warmth coming from them. As much as he hated seeing his creations burnt up, there was something oddly mesmerizing about the way the ruffled tips of the petals shimmered when set alight by drifting sparks.

It gave him an idea.

Of course, it was a ridiculous idea. Impossible, even. Most of his ideas were like that. He never told anyone about them, too embarrassed, unwilling to be ridiculed. Somehow his father always knew what he was up to, though. As Lance worked hard on his idea, experimenting and then experimenting again when the first attempts failed, his father popped in to check on him. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even shake his head, but he did bring Lance hot chocolate stuffed full of blue marshmallows to sooth his fried nerves.

A week passed; the deadline arrived. 

Amazingly, Lance achieved what he set out to. The first time it worked on a single experimental petal, he’d shouted so loudly his father had come running, terrified he’d set himself alight. When he’d seen Lance’s success, he’d scooped him up in a hug so tight it lifted Lance’s feet off the floor and felt like it made his rib cage an inch smaller.

With one perfect petal already set on the stem he’d created, the rest easily followed. He worked tirelessly to thicken the flower, adding petal after petal, carefully crafting faint veins through the thinner-than-paper surface, ruffling each edge, setting them around short, vibrant orange-and-red anthers. 

This was unlike any other flower he’d ever created.

It was a flower on fire.

Well, not completely on fire. Each petal was lined around the edge with burning embers. Since Keith’s personality was too intense to smother, Lance had instead tried to coax it out further. At first, it had been too much, too hot and forceful. His first few petals had been scorched to ashes. Once he’d controlled it, winding his soothing magic around Keith’s fire like a ribbon, controlling the outflow of warmth had been easier. He’d managed to fashion it along each petal edge, making them shine brighter than true gold. With every shift, orange embers drifted away from the flower, looking like fireflies or dandelion seeds.

It was so beautiful he hardly wanted to let the flower go.

Before Keith arrived to pick up his commission, Lance showed off his creation to his family. They were astounded, and it made him puff up with pride. A flower, on fire? Impossible! But not for him. Fire and water could co-exist in equal amounts.

Once his flower had been recorded and photographed, Lance set to priming it for display. Since the petals were a mixture of white, orange, yellow and red, he decorated the stem with a plain white, silky ribbon, one imbued with a little magic to make it seem extra soft. He tied it in a bow just under the flower head. White was a good colour for a wedding gift, he thought. He set the flower in a gift box, one inlaid with white velvet. The box was designed specifically for flowers, and charmed to make sure the petals didn’t get squashed or damaged. It would be safe in there.

Lance waited for his customer to arrive in the front display room. The room was filled to the brim with normal flowers and other household plants. Some hung from containers from the ceiling, and others lined the windowsills – there were a lot of windows. One of Lance’s cousins was a talented glass-blower, so their creations were on display, too. Marbles, beads, wind chimes, and spherical shapes of all colours caught glints of light that reflected around the room in a dreamy haze. Everything in the store felt magical, even if it wasn’t. That was a part of the charm.

He wondered what Keith would be like. He’d gotten quite an intimate feel for his personality, but that was often not a complete reflection of the person. He felt like he knew Keith, and maybe had fantasised about the customer with such a fiery personality, but he never let it get too far. He couldn’t. Disappointment was something he was loathsome to feel, and what if Keith was nothing like he imagined? 

Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately for his heart – the boy who walked through the door was much more than Lance ever expected.

Firstly, his hair was too long. It was thick and darker than ink, spilling between his eyes and around his temples like he’d just walked out of a hurricane. The long ends touched his shoulders and curled under his ears. He was in sore need of a haircut. However, the face beneath the hair was so brooding and handsome that Lance felt scrubbed raw. This person – Keith – had a face that knew pain, a face that knew necessary strength. He was all sharp angles and tough lines, except for the ever so slight curve of youth in his cheeks. He had an average nose and thin lips, but his eyes were handsome, despite their guardedness.

Lance suddenly wanted to keep the flower even more.

Keith spotted him amongst the overflowing displays of flowers without difficulty. Having that strange, otherworldly gaze fall on him made Lance startle. It brought all his attention back to himself, and he felt like cringing. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn while sculpting the flower; ashes littered his thighs where light blue jeans hid his legs, and his knees were dirty from where they always bumped the underside of his work table. His shoes were scuffed; he had a habit of scraping them across the floor when he was working. There was undoubtedly at least one smudge of soot on his cheek, and dark circles under his eyes.

He should have at least taken his work apron off from around his waist. His shirt wasn’t too bad – thin, white with blue sleeves – but the apron was embarrassing. 

Thankfully, it seemed that Keith was too fixated on his flower to notice. Worry furrowed his brow, and it took Lance a moment to realise that Keith was apprehensive about his gift to his brother. Did he doubt Lance’s abilities? His father had originally been contracted to fulfil the commission...

A twitch of competitiveness made Lance regain his wits. He greeted Keith with his best smile and beckoned him closer.

“This took me ages, but I know you’ll like it,” he declared, certain.

Keith was quiet; unsure. His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his dark red, leather jacket. His eyes flickered up to Lance’s once, but darted away when he noticed Lance looking at him. He seemed embarrassed, but Lance couldn’t figure out why.

When Lance opened the lid to the box containing the flower, all traces of apprehension left Keith. His eyes widened a fraction, lips parting. “It’s on fire,” he said.

“Sure is,” Lance grinned. He set the box down and lifted the flower with both hands, one palm cradling the petals, the other steadying the stem. “Your energy was difficult to work with, you know. Burnt straight through a bunch of my petals, but I got it to work with me eventually. It’s less of a fire and more of an illusion, but the effect is the same.” Gently, he twirled the flower stem. A shower of embers burst into the air like pollen, rising in a mesmerizing swirl before they blinked out of existence. “The flower should last about a month, maybe six weeks if you can keep it in a magically charged area.”

“Will the fire go out?” Keith asked. Almost without realising, he reached out a tentative hand, and pressed his fingertips against the petals. The embers glowed brighter at his touch. Lance noted the fingerless gloves on Keith’s hands with some interest, and wondered what they’d feel like against his skin.

“It shouldn’t, no,” Lance said. He set the flower back down in the box, but left the lid open. “The embers are saturated in the creation of the petals,” he explained. “When the flower wilts, they’ll go out, but until then they are as much a part of the flower as anything.” He paused, waiting for some sort of response from Keith, but his handsome customer had gone quiet. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Keith whispered. He glanced up at Lance then, and his eyes were on fire. “It’s perfect,” he said again.

A relieved, embarrassed smile played at the corner of Lance’s lips. He glanced down, feeling bashful, and busied his hands with closing the box lid. “Well, I’m really happy to hear that. I really like this flower, I’ve never made anything like it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Keith told him.

Lance could still feel his stare, earnest and concentrated. No one had ever looked at him that way, or made him feel like he did. It was enthralling. Not only did he want the flower to stay, but he wanted Keith to, as well.

“I’d be happy to work with your energy again,” Lance said, his voice weak and hopeful. He risked an uncharacteristically shy glance up. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I can promise you,” Keith whispered, “I won’t be.”


End file.
